And there was such honesty in her answer that Guy felt a shiver touch to his spine.
‘You have no money, no adequate clothing—’ his eyes flicked down over the creamy swell of her bosom ‘—and you are unwell from your ordeal. How far do you think you will get without some measure of assistance?’
‘That should not concern you, my lord.’
‘It should concern any gentleman, ma’am.’
There was the quiet sound of a sigh and she looked away. ‘If you have any real concern for my welfare, you will take me to the door and wave me on my way.’
‘Why are you in such a hurry to leave? You have been in this house for three days—what difference will one more make?’
‘More than you can know,’ she said quietly.
‘Come, ma’am, tell me what can be so very bad?’
She gave a small shake of her head and looked down.
Guy knew he needed something more to push her to speak. ‘Or should I address that question to the constable? Shall we have him back to speak with you now that you have wakened?’
She stared up with widening eyes, her fear palpable. He saw the way that her hands wrung together and he felt wretched for her plight. Yet even so, he let the silence stretch between them.
‘Please…please do not,’ she said at last, as if she could bear the silence no more.
He stepped towards her, drew her up from the chair to stand before him and said very gently, ‘Why not?’
There was just the tiniest shake of her head.
She was exhausted, not yet recovered from battling a stormy winter sea. She had been half-drowned, frozen, battered and cast up to die upon a shoreline. Her companions had died that night in the Firth of Clyde. That she had escaped death was a miracle. He eyed the bruise still livid against the pale skin of her forehead and stepped closer, so that barely a foot separated them. ‘Tell me.’ He stared into her eyes—a beautiful grey green, as soft-looking as velvet. The desperation there seemed to touch his soul. ‘I promise I will help you.’
Her eyes searched his, as if she were trying to gauge the truth of his words. He could sense her wavering.
‘I…’ She inhaled deeply.
He held his breath in anticipation.
‘I—’
The door of the gunroom swung open and Weir strode in.
The moment was lost. Guy’s breath released in a rush.
‘The strangest thing, Varington. Brown has just retrieved a blanket from the…’ Weir’s words trailed off at the sight before his eyes.
Guy watched the woman step away from him, and inwardly cursed his friend’s timing. All of the emotion wiped from her face and she became remote and impassive and untouchable. The transformation was remarkable, like watching her change into a different woman, or more like watching a mask pulled into place to hide the woman behind, he thought.
‘What the blazes…?’ Weir’s eyes swung from Guy to the woman and back again. ‘You’re soaked through to the skin.’
‘The lady and I stepped outside for a spot of fresh air,’ said Guy. ‘It felt a trifle stuffy in here.’
Weir seemed to have lost the power of words. His mouth gaped. He stared.
‘I was just about to escort your guest up to her bedchamber. She needs a change of clothing.’ He began to guide her towards the door.
‘Varington.’ It seemed that Weir had found his voice.
Guy glanced back at his friend.
Weir gestured down towards the woman’s feet.
Only then did Guy notice the trail of bloody footprints that she left in her wake and the crimson staining that crept around the edges of the skin on her feet.
But the woman continued walking steadily on towards the door.
‘Your feet…I will carry you.’ He caught her arm.
‘There is no need, my lord, I assure you.’ She appeared so calm that he wondered if it were he that was going mad. Hadn’t she just tried to run away, leaving the warmth and protection of Weir’s house, and for what? He was quite sure that she had nowhere else to go, why else had she taken the blanket? And when he had tried to stop her, she had fled from him, fought with him, pleaded with him to let her go. He had seen the terror in her eyes, the utter anguish. And now she stood there as if there was nothing wrong in the slightest. Guy stared all the harder.
Her face was white, the shadows beneath her eyes more pronounced. The bruise on her head told him that it undoubtedly throbbed, and the blood on her feet only hinted at the damage beneath. Yet she looked at him like she felt nothing of the pain; indeed, like she felt nothing at all. He wondered again who this woman was and what it was that she was hiding and why she so feared the constable. And he remembered Weir’s allusions to her criminality.
He glanced at his friend.
Weir gave a nod, his face taut, unsmiling, worried.
Guy turned and accompanied the woman from the room.
It was all Helena could do to put one foot in front of the other. The soles of her feet were stinging red raw and her legs seemed unwieldy and heavy. Her head was throbbing so badly that she could barely think straight, and it seemed that her eyes could not keep up with the speed of the things moving around her. She swallowed down the nausea that threatened to rise. Yet through the pain and the discomfort she kept on going. One step and then another. Each one taking her closer to the bedchamber. Keep going, she willed herself. Think of another way out. She wouldn’t give up; she couldn’t, not now, not while there was still breath in her lungs and blood in her veins. So she walked and focused her mind away from the pain. She thought of her plan; she always thought of her plan at such times.
The gunroom door closed behind them.
‘Allow me…’ Lord Varington held out his arm for her to take.
Her immediate reaction was to reject his offer, but in truth she felt so unwell that she was not confident that she could make the journey without stumbling. Better to take his arm than to fall. So she tucked her hand against his sleeve and slowly, without a further word between them, they made their way along the passageway towards the stairs.
Helena was both resentful and glad of the support of Lord Varington. His arm was strong and steady, his presence simultaneously reassuring and disturbing. His sleeve was warm beneath her fingers and she could feel the hard strength in the muscle beneath. He smelled of cologne and soap, and nothing of that which she associated with Stephen. Everything of him suggested expense: his looks, his manner, his tailoring. Even his accent betrayed his upper-class roots. But Helena knew a rake when she saw one.
With his oh-so-charming manner and his handsome looks, she supposed Lord Varington was a man used to getting what he wanted when it came to women—and
